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By Susan Howard
The Award
Susan Howard
Atop a bookshelf in the living room is a reminder of my son’s successful completion of his appointment to West Point: An award for the top Company Commander in his graduating year. Made of clear acrylic nestled in a solid base, it reflects not only outstanding achievement but also light play.
Sitting across from the bookcase as I sip my coffee, the morning light from a nearby window radiates a soft southern glow that highlights the beveled edges. It causes them to float above the base, glistening ghostly white masking the solidness of the piece; the representation of my son, tangible to touch but lost in the apparition.
Throughout the day clouds hide the sun at times and the room mirrors the changing light. I raise the shades to brighten the room as clouds gather, threatening rain. In the darkened room, the glittering of the award fades in the feeble light. It’s only an illusion.
In the late afternoon, the sun finally breaks through the clouds, and light streams in from the west enveloping the award completely. Squinting in the hot, harsh light I try to make it out, but it’s hidden from me. I walk to the bookcase reaching out to touch it to assure myself it’s still there, but my eyes cannot pierce the brightness and I fumble in the effort. Groping in the glare I finally find it, but the inscription is obscured, the radiance veiling it. I trace the words with my fingers, but they are unable to read them.
As evening light dims and incandescent lights replace the day, the award reflects the floor lamp from across the room. Miniaturized in the reflection yet casting warm, bright light that makes the substance of acrylic visible again. I know it’s real, the memory is clear. Pride and honor solidly reflected in the glow and a sense of well-being washes over me.
It has been there all along. A constant presence. A source of joy at times hidden, other times as clear as the light that now illuminates it. The illusions light has used to play with me are just that. The real has not succumbed to the fleeting mirages throughout the day.
By El
I have a little ghost friend who sits atop my computer. It's head adorned by an air plant. It's little happy face keeps me going in the day. Gently caressing my burnt-out brain.
As if it's unmoving, wide open mouth is happily shouting “Come on El! Keep going! One more page. One more problem. One more email. You're so close.”
The bright light of the power button below it keeps its eyes alight with glee.
At night, when all the lights are off and I'm laying in bed contemplating every decision I've ever made, just barely through my bookshelf I can see my ghost. We may be friends during the day, but night is a different story.
It's eyes blink slowly. Light, dark. Light, dark. My computer is now resting but my ghost with the plant on it is not. Now, in the dark with eyes blinking, it taunts me: “El, I know what you did. I know you let them down.” The soft constant blinking sends me deeper into my mind, it stops me from keeping going.
But then morning comes again. I get up, my eyes bleary, and I walk over to my computer and move the mouse. The light becomes solid again and my ghost and I are friends once more.
And I remember that I probably need to water the plant that sits atop it's head.
By Stephen
A friend once told me that every contemplative needs a garden. I guess it’s something about tending something that’s growing; or, participating in the cycles of life: planting, tending, harvesting, enjoying, and clean up. And those cycles all come with their inherent human characteristics: vision, determination, perseverance, and patience. I would amend my friends advice to, Every contemplative needs a garden…to sit in. I am not a gardner, but I love to sit in/by others endeavors at gardening: a rose garden, a field of ripened wheat or bright sunflowers, a Japanese tea garden, an alpine meadow with its biodiversity of wildflowers. Or, a different kind of garden: a group of people with whom I am cultivating friendships, trust, and confidence, all of us working through the cycles of life and the human characteristics that come with that.
By Charles
In my house, we have plants. There are hanging plants. There are window plants. There are jars of air plants on the bookshelf, and there are succulents in a cluster of little pots on the baby grand; their plump lobes a pale green contrast to the deep brown wood upon which they rest. My wife is a caretaker by nature, and when she isn’t helping people at the non-profit where she works, she cares for plants and fills our house with light that feels open and fresh and cleansing.
After the sun sets, the open blinds transform the house for me. The darkness outside leers at me, and I rush to shut it out. I am not sure why I panic at night. The lack of light has been a comfort in so many other settings. Swinging in the park near my house with friends after we crammed too many of us into hand-me-down cars for a late night stop at Black Dog for smoothies. Holding a hand in a theatre as I struggle to calm the racing of my heart in anticipation of my first kiss. The night’s endlessly dark sky as I danced with my future spouse to the 1940’s swing music mix CD I blared from my boombox outside the student union. In the morning I prepare for the day without turning on the lights, preferring the peace and solitude of the navigating in the pre-dawn gloom. And yet, through that single pane window, the night seems transformed into something fearful and ominous.
Dark is safety and privacy.
Dark is danger and exposure.
Dark is satisfaction and self-reflection.
Dark is longing and connection.
I suppose there as duality inherent to most things in life. Depending on the pane of glass you look through, life gets refracted into a myriad of perspectives. That distortion may be a trick of the light or maybe you are just seeing clearly for the first time.
This month we are taking a look at how external factors can change internal perceptions. Your challenge is to take an object in your living space, it could be a plant, doll, vase, etc., and cast a spotlight onto it.
Change the orientation of the light so it hits the object differently. How does the light affect they way you perceive this object? Does back lighting give it an otherworldly glow? Does illuminating it from below give off sinister vibes? Does the color of the light add any dramatic affect?
Keep your new perspectives of this object under 500 words.
Spring has sprung and it is time for many of us avid gardeners to start planning and planting our crop and future bouquets. There are many mood boosting and healthy benefits to gardening on your own or with friends at a community garden. We would enjoy hearing about what your plans are for your garden this season and what advice you would give to new gardeners!
Gingko trees were leafing out,
Green shadows—
Gleamed from the branches.
Gelid air and gale-like winds
Gnarled growth.
Glorious three-inch leaves,
Gradually grew to two last year.
By Nancy Allen
March Madness
A charge is a charge
Keep compact because the
Commitment
Calls for courage.
The key is to center
Don't bend, stand straight.
It's not easy,
It's an art form.
The coming of Spring is inspiring in a poetic sense so in honor of World Poetry Day on March 21st, we would delight in reading some of your brilliant, original poetry! The subject is open for you to really tap into the emotions and thoughts you are needing to get out. Keep your piece under 500 words or submit three short poems with 3-5 stanzas and under five lines.
35 miles south of the 913 and at the end of three country miles sits a barn where nature has done its best to take back the land. Tall grass scrapes at the paint and old tree roots threaten to crack the foundation, but the farm equipment holds firm on the concrete floor showing no signs of retreat. The barn cats make their home here and protect it from the onslaught of various rodents. The mice munch on feed not meant for their mouths and the cats descend from the top of tractor tires and scatter the masses; catching one or two perpetrators in the middle of what is now their last supper. Some mice may try to find a home in the flower boxes closer to the homestead, but alas, the barn cats find them there as well.
Moles and voles dig their happy homes under gardens and in fields to the disdain of the dog who patrols during daylight hours. They find their evection by means of canine sentinel more polite than the unexpected arrival of the farmer's violent plow. The burn pile at the back of the property seems a safe shelter for displaced creatures, but the snakes who find the most comfort here have staked a dangerous claim. Safety is not guaranteed with the smell of diesel looming in the air.
It is strange to think that humans have dominated the landscape yet still found a way to merge with nature all while wielding nature against itself.